


how blessed we are

by idaate



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: [ MAJOR V3 SPOILERS ]Before them all, Ouma remembers things he can't understand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRETY OF NDRV3!
> 
> Please proceed with discretion if you don't want to be spoiled.

You’ve always somehow pictured that if you were to have a talk with a god, you’d be on some sort of tabletop in a five dimensional cosmos. Either that, or at the pearly gates of hell on judgement day. One way or another, it would be a poetic sort of thing with meanings that long passed your understanding of things.

A dirty cafeteria wasn’t high on the list.

But then again, the person that sits across the table from you doesn’t  _ seem  _ like a god, or at least, not any sort of god that you think you know. Unless, of course, you  _ yourself  _ are a god, because they seem to be the spitting image of you, except  _ not really,  _ because that nervous smile and those frantic fingers aren’t an impression you’d like to give to anyone. In addition to the painfully lacking school uniform they don, you’re left feeling as if they’re nothing but L-A-M-E; lame.

“Well, who are you?” You hum, and the person jumps. 

“That’s--” They inhale and play with the cuffs of their sleeves. “That’s for  _ you  _ to decide.”

They begin to eat from a food tray you didn’t even realize was there, plastic utensils making painful noises against the tray. You wince a little bit, but lean forwards anyway.

“You’re kind of pathetic.” You note airily, and it pisses you off a bit how the person flinches whenever you open your mouth. “Definitely not a god. Seriously, I’m not here for this kind of a gig. This is supposed to be fun, isn’t it? Something I enjoy?”

“Uh.” They stare at their hands. “If that’s what you want to take out of this.”

“Well, what’s _ this _ ?” You frown. They take a sip from their milk carton that you didn’t even realize was there before, and they do not respond. You grit your teeth in frustration. “You keep on saying stuff like ‘what I want’ and ‘what I decide’ -- that makes no sense, you know! I  _ want  _ you to speak straight to me, and I have  _ decided  _ that you are to do so.”

They push the tray away from them and look at you in the eye. For some reason, that sends shivers down your spine, but you force them down. “Fine, then.” They say it with a tiredness beyond their years. “If that’s how you want to be humored.”

“It is!”

And that’s your first lie.

 

.

 

Everyone falls out of lockers, and it feels like deja vu but not really as introductions are buckled out like chips in the sun. The lockers are warm and metal, and you have to withdraw your hand after holding it for a couple seconds too long on a certain spot, exposed to the sun for too long. You wince.

(the announcement of a killing game still comes as a shock)

 

.

 

Amami’s death is like a trickle in the dam, a tiny hole that threatens to break something you never could put your finger on. So you don’t put your finger on it, instead letting the water trickle, trickle, trickle down like the blood that splashes your hand when you tousle Amami’s hair. It’s a curious phenomenon, the surge of regret and something that feels a bit too much like  _ I could’ve stopped this--  _ (when you know that, time and time again, you couldn’t have, though you’re not exactly sure what places that thought in your head) resonates quietly within you.

You breathe through your teeth and straighten up, knuckles cracking (like Amami’s skull - wowzers, similes were just flying off your tongue today!). “Well, he’s dead!” You announce, and some of the people still lingering by the body look at you with no small amount of impatience. “I mean, just in case we weren’t certain. I wanted to confirm that all for you.”

You wave cheerily and continue investigation. You’re not too sure why there’s such a terrible, terrible feeling in the back of your mind, but you pay it no heed. You can work around it, after all.

 

.

 

Boredom teases at your mind, and you crunch on the candy cigarette Akamatsu got you from the machine - before she died, of course, before she was hanging and then poked through, like little drains spurting blood and you wonder if you’re seriously having fun with all this.

Of course you are, of course you are, because the candy tastes all the sweeter knowing that you’ll never get something from her again. 

Saihara’s upset over it all. He’s really, really upset, and a small piece of your mind notes that maybe it’s your fault? Maybe? Possibly? Ugh.

The candy has all but dissolved in your mouth, and you swallow the sweetness. In moments, the taste completely fades from your tongue, and you’re left with just a touch of bitterness that you don’t quite understand.

Sighing, you throw your back onto the cushions of your bed, staring at the ceiling. 

 

.

 

You discover where the plastic knives are stashed in the cafeteria, and the person at the table simply stares as you raid the cashier at the end of the lunch line. You return to them with the usual impeccable grin on your face, and you don’t  _ quite  _ understand why they almost look disappointed.

You ask them, and they raise a tired eyebrow.

“Sorry, did my opinions ever matter to you?”

“No.”

“...that was a lie, wasn’t it.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you laugh as you sit down at the table, knife already making itself of use. You prop yourself up on your elbows, eyeing them, and they shift uncomfortably under your gaze. You briefly wonder  _ why is that  _ \- you’re the one who has far more reasons to be afraid of them, after all - but decide not to continue that line of thought.

“Nishishi, you seem to know me better than I know myself!”

Their sigh doesn’t go unnoticed. “You have no idea.”

 

.

 

The stacked pile of motive cards on your bed shifts like cards. You poke them a couple times, debating whether or not to sift through them, because you could  _ always  _ go back -- you don’t have to do any of this, after all. But no, it’s starting to get a little bit fun, almost, so why not?

You go through them fast, faster than you’d have expected but the exhilaration is, quite literally,  _ breathtaking.  _ You find yourself gasping at the end of it all, a stupidly silly grin resting on your face. It takes a while for you to gather yourself up together again, but it’s time enough for you to wish that you had even more motive cards, more secrets--

(what was wrong with you?)

Breath catching, you nearly break them all right then and there but decide to instead shove them beneath your bed, like they’re hot coals. For good measure, you throw a couple useless crumpled up papers there too, papers full of diagrams and empty promises.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until Gonta knocks the door and you look up, already planning out the twenty seven different ways the trial could start.

 

.

 

Angie’s statues are beautiful, and you admire all of them. She’s long dead, after all, so that somehow makes them far  _ more  _ beautiful than they were when they were alive - just like Akamatsu’s candy cigarette. You suppose that it’s probably the same logic that applies to other artists, how people rarely give two shits about them when they’re still alive but the moment they’re dead they’re shoving money down the wallets of people who didn’t even  _ know  _ the artist just ‘cause they want their hands on some painting or other.

Amami’s statue stares at you, upside down. Yes, you considered to hang it rightside up at first, but something about seeing the rope around his neck twisted your stomach into knots and you had to change it quickly. Besides, if anyone looked at you straight, they’d see you for the disgusting person you were - maybe if Amami looked at you upside down, the impression would be reversed?

“I don’t know why I’m thinking such thoughts.” You say to no one. “You’re just a statue, after all. You can’t talk to me. You can’t look at me. You can’t see shit. You’re dead.”

The statue stares back.

 

.

 

“Ouma-kun, you have to be more careful…!” Saihara’s brow is furrowed with concern you do not deserve.

You chuckle, already hiding your hand behind your back. “Whoopsie daisy!” You hum. “I just nicked myself with the knife, so it’s okay! No wonder I’m not the Super High-School Level Knife Game Player, right? Or would it be the ‘Knife Gamer’. Hmm.” You tap your chin with the wounded hand and wince. “Uh, didn’t think that through.”

Saihara sighs and grabs at your hand. Despite yourself, you let out a tiny yelp, and Saihara pauses.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No! No no no. I am a-okay!” You flash him a little thumbs up. “It looks worse than it actually is, trust me. I hit an artery.”

“An artery on your  _ finger?” _

“The build of my body is far different and far superior from normal people.”

Saihara sighs. “Ouma-kun...please take care of yourself, alright? Enough people have lost blood already, and I would be sad if you died, so--”

You can’t stop the laugh that comes from your throat, and Saihara pauses, confused. “Saihara-chan, I’m  _ touched  _ that you hold such a high regard for me,” You hum, “but  _ please,  _ don’t say things that you might not mean or regret in the future, alright?”

“I won’t regret it.” Saihara insists, and you feel your heart leap into your throat.

“Saihara-chan, you’re an even bigger liar than I am!”

 

.

 

“You’re happy, having heard that.”

“Am I?” You wiggle your eyebrows at them, and they busy themself with the cuffs of their uniform. You never realized it until now, but the uniform seems a bit too familiar - after all, didn’t you make that hole yourself when you--

When you…

When you what? You shake the thought out of your mind, because you’ve never seen that uniform until your doppleganger donned it. Besides, you’d look  _ so  _ much more rad in that uniform anyway.

 

.

 

“Uhm, so, you see, it would be better if everyone was dead, don’t you think?”

Gonta stares at you, frame shaking as he tries to process what you just said.  _ You’re  _ still trying to process what you just said, but you’re not the one who needs convincing here.

“Gonta--”

“Gonta-chan would be doing everyone a  _ favor!”  _ You exclaim, lying like it’s second nature (it’s not - it’s first) and spreading your pixel arms wide. “Seriously...if we just tell everyone what happens now, then they’ll all kill themselves without a second though. They’re going to die one way or another. Besides,” You tilt your head, “despite knowing everything,  _ you  _ don’t want to die, do you?”

Gonta struggles with his words, inhaling cautiously and looking from side to side in fear, as if the walls have ears. “N...no. Gonta doesn’t.”

“So there you have it!” You clap your tiny hands. “You do us all a favor, killing us all and walk away scot free. You’d  _ literally  _ be killing us all with kindness, you know?”

“R-right.”

“Gonta-chan,” You look him deep in his virtual eyes, and for some reason, he doesn’t look away. “you don’t have to do this if you  _ reaaaally  _ are opposed to it, alright? It’s all up to you.”

“No.” Gonta inhales shakily. “Gonta...Gonta wants to do everyone a favor.”

“Well, alright! What a big boy you are.”

 

.

 

“...you really  _ are  _ the worst.”

The plastic knives only seem to grow in abundance the more you grow enamored with them, and it’s more than a gift when you toy with them, fingers trying to nimbly spin them on your knuckles like you saw Harukawa do that one time. You don’t succeed, of course, and that makes sense because you’re not the Super High-School Level Assassin, after all.

(at least, not in the way she is)

“Hmm, do you think?” You whistle low, and they shiver a bit underneath your gaze. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something? Maybe it’s your fault that I’ve ended up so terrible. What a hypocrite that would make you! What a  _ failure  _ that would make you!”

It’s a meaningless drabble that you don’t even think twice about, but they flinch nonetheless, and you find yourself backtracking. “Oh, that was a lie. You need to stop taking everything so seriously. Loser.”

“N-no, you’re right.” They inhale shakily and push a piece of hair behind their ear. “It is completely my fault you ended up like this. I...I shouldn’t have--”

You gently place the plastic knife back down on the table. Your arms sting enough for now, and you’re too busy frowning at their words. “Pardon?” 

“I just didn’t think...I.” Their breathing speeds up for a second before they take in a deep breath, refocusing themself and staring you straight in the eye. “Oh, nevermind. God, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You’re never going to understand anyway.”

“Well,  _ excuuuuse  _ me!” You throw your hands up in the air. “I still understand things better than any of them will!”

“If that’s what you want to believe.” They finally concede and look back at their hands, like they have been all this time. “I don’t know why I thought I was ever going to be a good puppet in the first place.”

You don’t have a response for that.

 

.

 

There’s such a sickening feeling in your throat as Monokuma declares that, indeed, without a doubt, it was  _ Gonta Gokuhara  _ who was the killer! Such a sweetheart, such a tragedy! Good job, Ouma Kokichi! Truly, some of your finest work! Kudos all around, you deserve them, etcetera etcetera, now you know for sure that no one will care if you die, not your classmates, not the audience, not the person who sits nearly across from you in the cafeteria.

(you plug in a vote for yourself anyway)

You have to force yourself to watch the execution and you wonder briefly if it was going to be worth it, but then the bug spears through Gonta’s chest and the boy is set aflame and you have no time at all to wonder (and aren’t the executions exceptionally terrible this time around?)

“Aw, who voted for me?” You pout even though it was you, hands behind your head as you fight down the stabbing sensation in your own chest. “What if other people had voted for me, and we all got executed? How would  _ that  _ have turned out? Would any of you feel guilty at all?”

The laugh that spills from your mouth is more forced than any laugh you’ve ever made thus far, and that’s really saying something. Saihara looks at you with a gaze brimming with pure contempt. You smile.

“You really  _ are  _ pathetic.” 

At that, whatever hope you had for seeing everything to the end completely dies in you, along with something else that you can’t quite place.

You open your mouth and try to say something,  _ anything  _ because that’s how these things work, right?

The only thing that comes out of your mouth is something akin to a cough and you have to cover your mouth. 

“That was cruel, Saihara.” 

(except you don’t really say that, it’s just in your head cause you’d never say that, you’d just smile and laugh)

You dash away immediately because your vision is blurring now, and you  _ really  _ have to check in to see if there’s anything for a common cold in the medicine cabinet because if you hadn’t known any better, you would have said you sounded that you were crying - but you’re not! You swear on your life.

 

.

 

You spear your cereal with a plastic fork, a scowl now permanently embedded on your face. “Having a conscience fucking  _ sucks!”  _ You spit, and they look at you curiously. If only you knew that there weren’t any consequences, then you’d be spearing them inside the eyes and maybe you could forget about this, forget about everything because then you could fool yourself into thinking that you might have the right to live (ha!).

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I realize--” The fork pauses, mid stab, and you stare at the crushed pile of cheerios on your plate. “That was a lie. You need to stop taking me so seriously.”

They look at you with so much pity that you can’t  _ bear  _ it for another second, and stand up pointedly. “But what,” They whisper, “was a lie?”

You seem to be running out of answers these days.

 

.

 

The bomb is fake, just like you - fake fake fake fake fake, but they kind of believe it anyway despite knowing how  _ fake  _ it all is. The painful thing is, they believe it and every single one of them still refrains from joining your side.

Of course, you knew that would happen. The person in the school uniform told you so, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’d all rather choose death than associate themselves with you.

(you’d do the exact same, after all)

 

.

 

“Does...dying hurt?”

Your voice sounds small and scared and you hate it, hate it almost as much as you hate yourself, and they look at you over the seven layer chocolate frosted cake that sits in front of them.

“I wouldn’t know.” They sigh. “I never really died. I just stopped existing, which wasn’t all that painful. I’ve heard it depends on the method, though. Why, do you want it to hurt?”

You finger your checkered scarf, tightening it slightly and stare at the ground with half-lidded eyes. “I’m not sure. I...I want to be ‘gone’, but without the actual ‘dying’ process, you know? If all evidence was erased in seconds, then -” You mime an explosion noise. “- poof! Goodbye, me.”

“And you don’t want to live?” They stick a finger into the cake before withdrawing it, all covered in frosting, and lick it tentatively.

“Oooooh my God.” You drawl and lean over the table, reaching for the cake. They pull it away from your grasp, and you pout. “For a conscience, I would’ve thought that  _ you,  _ of all people, would know that a  _ liar  _ could never have a happy ending.”

For the first time since you’ve met them, they smile genuinely.

 

.

 

Momota looks at you with more understanding and pity than you want. He’s gentle when he wants to be, kind - far kinder than Harukawa, and a tiny piece of you wishes she would die instead of him but that wouldn’t work out, not when that’s exactly what the Mastermind wants. You’ve been trying to figure out who the Mastermind is, and  _ obviously  _ it’s not Momota because otherwise you’d be dead a long time ago and Harukawa’s too dumb for that stuff. Himiko’s a possibility, but she  _ probably  _ wouldn’t orchestrate the death of both of her best friends (probably), so that leaves Kiibo, Shirogane, and--

(saihara)

You force that thought into the back of your mind as you grin at Momota, detailing your death in such perfect detail that you can already visualize it, like a stage play. Momota’s not happy with the circumstances, and he makes that pretty clear, shifting uncertainly and saying things like “are you sure this is alright” and “are you sure this is  _ right” _

“Of course I do!” You say it with only the confidence that a liar such as you can have, and you twirl a strand of hair around your finger. “I’ve never had a plan of mine go wrong before, so this one must go seamlessly, don’t you think?”

There’s a sort of tiredness in Momota’s gaze as he considers your words, and you wonder if he knows how Gonta considered your words too not that long ago and look where  _ he  _ ended up.

“That’s a lie, yeah?” 

You laugh. “Who knows?”

“Ouma-kun…” Momota breathes in quietly. “Ouma, why did you make  _ me  _ drink the antidote? I’m going to die of my illness, anyway, so I could’ve just...committed suicide, you know? You very easily could have walked away from this alive. You could have very easily  _ survived  _ this, with even less casualties to spare, so why…”

“Momota-chan,” You hum, “do you  _ really  _ think I want to live?”

Momota blinks.

“That was a lie! Ha, fooled you yet again.” You laugh. “No, it’s cause no one is gonna believe me when I say that you killed yourself and I didn’t end you with my own hand. We can walk circles around the whole thing, but no one is going to trust a liar like me, right? The only way out of this with a guaranteed win is if  _ I’m  _ the one who dies.” 

“Now  _ that  _ really sounds like a lie.”

You ignore him and flash a peace sign his way. “‘V’ is for victory, am I right?”

 

.

 

Kaede’s swinging body keeps time, counting the seconds it takes for the press to crush your skull and end your life.

(the only thought on your mind as it comes down is how saihara called you pathetic)

 

.

 

“Do you care for a slice?” They offer the cake to you finally, and you accept gratefully.

“Ah. Thank you.” The fork is silver, not plastic anymore, and you savor the taste. It’s not actually a chocolate cake, apparently, it’s just dyed brown to trick you or whatever, but that’s something you almost expected. It’s almost something you  _ deserve,  _ and it’s very, very fitting.

“Ah, Ouma-kun--!”

_ That  _ voice isn’t one you expect, and turning around, you realize--

(if you don’t go to hell, you might just end up going to heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!


End file.
